The Masada Complex

“An American?” The policeman banged his club on the bars, making Rabbi Josh jump back. “Do you need my aid?”

Rabbi Josh turned. The whole group was standing, glaring at him. The Arab with the white knitted cap snatched the rabbi’s kafiya and yelled, “American!” Another Arab came forward and kicked him in the groin. The rest of them launched their bodies toward him, wailing in Arabic.

When the sun went down, Elizabeth heard the muezzin call for evening prayers. While the men gathered in the prayer hall, the women set long tables in the courtyard for the iftar. They carried bowls of rise and lamb stew, baskets of pita breads, and jugs of ice water. A smoky fire kept away the flies.

Aunt Hamida had gone to bring another dish, and Elizabeth stepped to the side of the courtyard, observing the commotion. The evening communal eating during Ramadan was familiar, even after so many years. Fasting from sunrise to sunset during the long, hot summer days was taxing, which probably contributed to Father’s impatience and the harsh punishment.

She realized no one was paying attention to her. With all the men in the mosque, who was going to stop her from running off?

She inched along the wall toward the exit from the courtyard, but paused. Now that her punishment had been meted, what was the point of running away? Tonight, after the iftar, she would demand a private audience with Father. Caressing her tummy, Elizabeth was determined that her child would have a grandfather.

Cursing and shouting “Itbakh El-Yahood,” a swarm descended on Rabbi Josh, showering him with clenched fists. He hooked his fingers in the chicken wire, and the Arabs’ shrill screams filled his head with the certainty of doom.

He felt cold spray on his face. The beating stopped, and the angry shouts changed to cries of distress. Fierce burning flared in his eyes and nose. He began to cough.

Police in blue uniforms entered the cage, the hisses of their pepper spray barely audible over the screaming. They dragged him out and sat him on the ground. Wheezing with each breath, he remembered Masada, about to join Silver on a one-way trip, and struggled to get up. “Please,” he said to one of them, “I need to-”

“Shut up!” The policeman raised his club. “Sit!”

Rabbi Josh dropped, raising his arms in defense. “I’m not an Arab. It’s a mistake!”

“Mistake? Your mother made a mistake!” The club was about to land.

“I’m Jewish.” He wiped the tears and mucus from his face.

“Then why did you entered the mosque?” The policeman spat on the ground. “Idiot! ”

They led him into the station, up two flights of stairs and along a corridor to a room with a mirror wall, a steel table and four chairs. He saw his reflection-soiled with blood and mud, his socks torn, exposing the blisters on his feet.

They went to the door.

“Hey! Let me go!”

They shut the door in his face and locked it. He heard them laugh, their footsteps fading.

He limped to the barred window. The sun had gone down, and the sounds from the rally on Jaffa Street had intensified. He could tell by the deep rumble that the crowd had become enormous, and he wondered if the senators in Washington paid any attention to what was happening in Jerusalem. By morning, Israel time, they would vote to punish the Jewish state for what it had not done. But how was he going to convince anyone? Telling the media that Professor Silver had attended a mosque would achieve nothing, especially as he himself was there too.

The only thing that mattered now was saving Masada! Rabbi Josh went to the mirror wall. Was it one-sided? He tried to see through, but couldn’t. He pounded the door. “Open up!”

The noise from the rally suddenly quieted, and the music ceased. He returned to the barred window and listened.

“I am not,” a woman’s voice reverberated from many loudspeakers, “a supporter of the Jewish state.”

Masada?

“I am, however, a supporter of freedom, security, and happiness for the Jewish people-and for all other people.”

There was no mistaking the voice. It was Masada! She was addressing the rally!

“And I believe that a state defined by religion cannot provide freedom, security, and happiness to all people, because setting religious criteria to citizenship contradicts the very essence of a modern democracy.”

The hum of the crowd disappeared, as if the many thousands in attendance were holding their breaths.

“I ask you this,” Masada continued. “Why live in another ghetto, even as big as Israel, when we can live anywhere in the Western world as equal citizens, free to practice our Jewish religion, follow our ancient customs, and pursue our individual, personal aspirations without fear or foe?”

Her question remained hanging, the crowd hushed. Rabbi Josh leaned against the bars and imagined her shrug in that special way.

“My question is hypothetical though, because the fact is that Israel exists, and you-I hear there are over a million people here-feel deep love for Israel. It is a love I cannot deny sharing with you. For us, born Israelis, love for this troubled land comes with suckling mom’s milk. But the reason I agreed to come up to the stage is not because you need to hear me, yet another Jewish writer with utopian ideas. What I had to say has already been heard in America, which started this fiasco.”

A grumble went through the crowd, multiplied by many thousands. But it died quickly.

“I agreed to speak here tonight because one of the organizers asked if I wanted Israel destroyed.” Masada paused. “Do I want Israel to die?”

A momentary swell of murmuring swept through the night.

“The answer is no.” Another long pause. “I do not wish destruction for Israel. It is my birthplace, the land of my youth, the country my beloved parents died for. And despite its flaws, Israel represents my values of humanity and progress in stark contrast to its neighbors. It stands for democracy among dictatorships, for creativity in a region beset by dark ignorance, for modernism among primitive fundamentalism. So I can’t help but pray for Israel’s survival.”

Hearing her sad voice, Rabbi Josh felt like crying. He grabbed the bars, wishing he could run out there and take her in his arms, tell her he knew she was not guilty of anything, that she was the victim of manipulation.

“However,” Masada said, her voice strong again, “I believe that optimism for Israel’s future is possible only if you ignore history. There is scant precedent for a lasting Jewish state on this land.” She paused. “As much as we hope for Israel to live forever, we must also consider the other possibility. Our existential risks come not from the Arab countries that render us landlocked. Israel is too useful for them as a scapegoat for their dictatorial failures and their peoples’ misery. Neither would Islam’s hate for the West likely to sweep us in its viral spread of Improvised Explosive Devices or nuclear-tipped rockets. The real risk to Israel is what has caused the repeated destructions of Jewish kingdoms: Infighting among Jews.”

Rabbi Josh listened, as mesmerized as the crowd outside.

“Only if we accept Israel’s vulnerability, maybe, just maybe, we can unite and save it. So please,” Masada said, “close your eyes and imagine hearing this hypothetical news bulletin on your car radio.”

Complete silence descended on the night, as if the whole city of Jerusalem froze in anticipation of Masada’s made-up news.

“This report has just arrived from Jerusalem.” Masada spoke in the even tone of a news anchor. “This morning, following the assassination of the prime minister and his cabinet, the Israeli Knesset building was destroyed by an explosion credited to an extremist Jewish organization. With El-Al jetliners burning on the tarmac at Ben Gurion Airport, Israeli citizens crowded into fishing boats and yachts, heading for Cyprus and the Greek islands. Meanwhile, bloody rioters vandalized central Jerusalem, and warring militias fought in Tel Aviv. At the United Nations building in New York, the blue and white flag went down while the Security Council voted to send